Page 17 of Omega in Love
"You don't have to explain," I tell him, my voice gentle but firm. "Not to me. Not to any of us."
He turns his face into my shoulder, his forehead pressing against the curve of my neck. I can feel his eyelashes flutteragainst my skin, and the sensation sends a ripple of tenderness through me that's almost overwhelming.
"When you picked me up. . .I should have been embarrassed." His words vibrate against my collarbone. "The headlines tomorrow are going to be brutal."
I snort softly, the sound rumbling deep in my chest. "Let them talk." My fingers spread wide across his back, spanning the delicate architecture of his shoulder blades. "I'd do it again in a heartbeat." I mean it, I'd carry him across continents if that's what he needed.
"I know you would." He lifts his head, meeting my eyes with startling intensity. The afternoon light catches the deep brown of his irises, making them look like burnished amber. "That's the thing, Levi. I know you would. All three of you. You'd walk through fire for me, and I don't understand why."
The statement catches me off guard, the reason seems so obvious to me. How can he not see it? How can someone so perceptive about everything else be so blind to his own worth? It makes me want to find everyone who ever made him doubt himself and have a very serious conversation with them.
"Because you matter," I say simply, watching his expression carefully, wanting, no, needing him to believe me. "Because you're worth protecting. Because?—"
I stop myself, swallowing the words that want to follow.Because I'm falling in love with you. Because we all are. Because sometimes when you laugh, I forget how to breathe. Because the thought of anything happening to you would tear me apart inside.
It's too soon. He's vulnerable right now, and the last thing he needs is another complication. Another person wanting something from him. I've seen how people look at him, how they take and take without ever considering what it costs him.
Instead, I reach up and brush a finger down his cheek, letting my fingers linger against his skin. The softness there belies the strength I know he carries. "Because you deserve to feel safe. We want to be the ones who make that happen."
He studies my face, searching for something. His eyes move over my features like he's memorizing them or maybe like he's trying to decode a message written in a language he's still learning. Whatever he sees makes him soften, his scent shifting subtly, warmer now, less distressed. The rose fragrance that's uniquely him is stronger, mingling with my vanilla in a way that makes my pulse quicken.
"Thank you," he whispers, the words weighted with meaning beyond their simplicity, "for coming for me today."
I smile, my heart too full for words. There's a universe of things I want to tell him. Promises I want to make, fears I want to soothe away, but now isn't the time. So, I just pull him closer, letting him rest against me, his body fitting against mine like he belongs there. I silently promise him that I'll always come for him, no matter what. No matter how far I have to go, how hard I have to fight, how long I have to wait. Some things are worth the patience, and Brookes Daniels might just be worth everything.
Chapter 8
Dante
"Is there something you want to tell me, Dante?"
Dez's voice cuts through the earpiece like a blade—sharp, no-nonsense, and low enough to sound casual, but I know better. That tone is anything but casual.
I pause on the back patio, one hand braced against the warm stucco pillar as I scan the quiet Los Angeles hills. The evening air carries the scent of jasmine and distant charcoal grills, mingling with the faint traces of someone's expensive wine wafting from a neighboring property. The sky bleeds orange and pink as the sun makes its slow descent behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the manicured landscape.
From this angle, I can see into the living room through the open sliding doors, the gauzy curtains barely stirring in the gentle breeze. Brookes is curled up on the couch, tucked underneath Levi's arm, feet drawn under him like a cat seeking warmth. His slender frame seems almost delicate against Levi's broad chest. The soft glow of the table lamp catches on Brookes’ features, highlighting the gentle curve of his cheekbone, the fan of his dark lashes against his skin.
Levi is speaking to him in that low, rumbling voice of his, one large hand absently stroking Brookes’ shoulder. Brookes listens with ease, nodding occasionally, his expression unguarded in a way I rarely see. There's something quieter in Brookes’ posture now, a stillness instead of tension.
"I'm going to assume this is about the video," I say finally, my voice flat, military-neutral. The kind of tone that reveals nothing but confirms everything. The same voice I've perfected through countless missions and deployments. A careful neutrality that gives away no position, no weakness, no emotion.
"You assume right," Dez says. "It's all over social media. Multiple angles. Trending on three platforms last I checked. But I'm not calling to yell about security, Dante. I already chewed out the photographer's team for twenty minutes straight. I'm calling because of what I saw how your team reacted."
I don't say anything. Sometimes silence is the better part of valor, something my father never understood but that I've learned through years of standing guard in rooms where words could get people killed. I've watched men hang themselves with their own explanations, their own justifications. So, I wait, the phone pressed against my ear, my eyes never leaving Brookes’ form on the couch.
"I watched the way Levi carried him," Dez continues, his voice clinical but probing. "The protective curve of his body. How he shielded Brookes’ face from the cameras. That wasn't bodyguard protocol, Alvarez. It wasn't professional assessment. It was fear. It was personal."
A beat passes before I speak, weighing my words carefully like ammunition being loaded into a chamber. Each syllable precise. "It is personal," I admit finally, the confession settling like a weight in my chest, both burden and relief. To finally say it out loud, feels like a confession long overdue.
"So, I'll ask again," Dez says, his tone shifting from professional to something more pointed. "Is there something you want to tell me? Something about the nature of your team's relationship with Mr. Daniels?"
I sigh and scrub a hand over my jaw, feeling the stubble rasp against my palm. The tactile sensation grounds me, pulls me back from the edge of defensiveness I'm teetering on. My fingers linger there for a moment, pressing into the tension points where my jaw has been clenched tight all day. Blowing out a breath, I finally voice what's been building for months, growing like something with roots and purpose.
"He's not just a client," I say, the words hanging in the evening air between us, impossible to take back now. The admission feels both terrifying and inevitable, like stepping off a ledge after hours of contemplating the fall.
"No shit," Dez says dryly, not a hint of surprise in his voice. "What I'm trying to determine is whether this is one of those situations where I need to start thinking about rotating the team or if this is one of those situations where I start prepping a contract shift."
My brow furrows, the implications filtering through my mind like sand through fingers. I've known Dez long enough to understand he never asks questions without already calculating several possible answers.
